


Dictation

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angels, M/M, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a dusty old attic room, Arthur dictates while Alfred types. (1800s setting)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dictation

**Author's Note:**

> For the usxuk livejournal community's short story anthology. Thanks to Bukkun for beta-ing :)

**|Dictation|**

 

“You spelled that wrong.”

 

Alfred looked over his shoulder to regard his counterpart with an amused glance. “You know,” he retaliated, “I’d like to see you come over here and try to write this alone.”

 

Arthur raised an eyebrow from where he was hovering around by the dusty chest of drawers in a far corner of the attic room. “You know I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” he scoffed and Alfred scowled when he continued, “Which I do, actually, because your typing is irritatingly slow and your spelling and punctuation resembles that of an eight year old farm boy.”

 

Alfred grumbled **,** as he disliked losing in an argument, which he assured himself that he hadn’t lost and that he was just far too civilized to retaliate. “Why get an eight year old farm boy to write your mediocre novel if that is all I am?”

 

…Or not.

 

Arthur had moved from the drawers over to the desk that Alfred was still typing away at, his jumbled up mind trying to argue while simultaneously remember the paragraph that Arthur had dictated only two minutes ago.

 

He should have let the argument lie like he had planned to. A bead of sweat lodged itself in his hairline as Arthur leaned over his shoulder to read what he had typed. Arthur made a noise and a shiver travelled, quick as lightning, up Alfred’s spine, setting him on edge.

 

“That’s not what I said,” Arthur hummed, “I said, ‘Petunia sighed as she made her way to the bakery.’ I did not say, ‘Petunia made her way to the bakery as she sighed.’” 

 

Alfred growled as he erased what he had written, watching the letters disappear from view on the paper of his rickety old typewriter. He needed a new one- he had only just changed the ink but the letters were still coming out only half done. “Well sorry, Sir Particular,” he shot back. No matter how much Arthur creeped him out (not that Alfred would ever admit the fact), the man was still impolite and Alfred thought it right to return the favour. 

 

As if Arthur hadread his mind, which Alfred was sure he was able to do, he leaned in and blew a sneaky breath on Alfred’s neck, taking great delight in watching the other almost fall off his old wooden chair with fright.

 

“Honestly, it has been three months,” Arthur mused, grinning down as Alfred desperately tried to compose himself, “You think you would be used to me hanging around by now.”

 

Yes, it had been three months. In early March, disaster struck the nearby town of Boerrville. A horrible fire in a dingy old pub—no one saw it coming and no one in the town or any of the surrounding villages and towns expected it to fall to the ground, taking the owner and all the customers inside with it. Alfred had read about it in the local paper and, as a mystery enthusiast, headed over to see what had caused the fire. 

 

He met Arthur on the first Sunday, in his room. Arthur knew every detail about the case and told Alfred where to find the origin of the first flame and to learn why it burnt to the ground. Poor building work turned out to be the cause and Alfred got recognition for being the one to discover it. Only he wasn’t. 

 

As payment for giving Alfred the fifteen minutes of fame he needed to get more cases to study and fuel his interests, Arthur had but one simple request: that Alfred write the novel that Arthur never had a chance to. Because you see, in early March in a dingy old pub in Boerrville, Arthur had chosen to go get an early afternoon pint.

 

And dead men can’t write books. 

 

But oh, how Arthur had tried. However, he wasn’t even sure if he was an angel—which would explain the fluffy, downy feathered wings that sprung out of the back of his tweed suit jacket—or some sort of ghost—which would explain the walking through walls and slight translucent appearance. All he knew was that his hands kept going straight through the typewriter instead of pressing down on it. Alfred knew that Arthur was brimming with reasonable lethargy over never being able to hold a pencil again—it is the little things about death that make the biggest difference, it seemed.

 

Alfred had wondered about death before. He wasn’t a very religious man so sometimes it just seemed like he would be stuck in a hole and left to rot, worms rolling around in ecstasy at their seemingly never ending food supply. Other times he would wonder if there was an afterlife where he would get everything he desired handed to him on a silver platter by the many pretty mistresses he had never been blessed with on earth; that was when he dreamed of heaven, though. The nightmares about hell and its relentless flames awoke him at night once or twice; but he rarely lets it cross his mind. 

 

Nowadays,Alfred doesn’t wonder about death **,** for he has it standing right before him in the form of the late Arthur Kirkland. Now that he has seen death firsthand, Alfred thinks of it as nothing more than a nuisance—death would be a bore at worst, it seemed. 

 

As Arthur dictated the rest of the chapter, paragraph by paragraph, Alfred allowed his thoughts to drift as he mindlessly typed away at his dated typewriter. He didn’t ponder about his own death or his own life, but instead Arthur’s. His file from the fire was an interesting one. He used to be a journalist of sorts—being so busy writing everybody else’s news on to tacky local papers that he forgot to write his own story down. But then again, he probably always presumed he would find time to do it in his later years as no one reallyexpects to die. In our own minds, Alfred thought, we are all immortal.

 

Alfred had read the file thoroughly; Arthur had family but no one that needed to be contacted and told about his untimely demise. A charge of suspected sodomy had been brought against him in upper London that was later dropped, which, for some reason, did not surprise Alfred, even though he wouldn’t have pegged Arthur as a Nancy. Alfred personally thought that the peculiar eyebrows the man attired were worth a mention in the report as the messy old photograph that was attached was blurry at best and did not show them clearly enough. Alfred had quite the fright when he first saw them, but that may have been due to the fact that he was speaking with the undead instead.

 

Alfred glanced back and caught Arthur glaring holes in him. He had the eerie thought again that maybe angels could read minds but he ignored it. The smirk on Arthur’s face seconds after he made that decision though made him regret it slightly.

 

Arthur’s wings fluttered as he made his way back across to Alfred again, choosing to actually glide instead of appear this time. He moved up on the desk, positioning himself in a seating position but not quite touching the table. Regardless, the typewriter shook a little and Alfred stopped typing. 

Arthur leaned in again and Alfred leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “Next paragraph?” he asked. 

 

Arthur grinned slightly before shaking his head. “No, you are off the hook, for now anyways, lickfinger.”

 

Alfred let out a sigh of relief and stretched his fingers out. He hated writing, he hated typewriters and he hated the English language at this stage and no one could blame him for he had been at it for hours on end. Arthur, somehow, sat quiet and watched, his head cocked slightly to one side. 

 

Alfred regarded him and wondered why he wore a suit. Maybe it was the outfit he died in- yes, that was probably it. He could think of many dangerous professions which required outfits that did not suit those wings. Thieves, adventuresses, other undesirable ways of making money did not seem to have any need for angelic undertones such as this, but he was sure that God did not deny them heaven for what they did on earth Arthur’s wings were attached in no apparent way, looking at them gave Alfred a headache; he could see that they didn’t hover and were not attached to his suit jacket in any way. However, they did not appear to be coming from his spine either. They looked like the just sprung out of his soul and it made Alfred wonder if the wings were meant to be a representation of the soul they were birthed from. However, a pure white colour with precise swirls of feathers and downy fluff, perfectly askew pieces at the sides and top, seemed out of character for such a sarcastic, aloof and completely infuriating man like Arthur.

 

Before he lost his courage, Alfred blurted, “May I touch them?”

 

Arthur turned his head, his mouth turned downwards but his eyes inquisitive. “May you touch what, exactly?”

 

Alfred felt his ears turn red with embarrassment. He should have never asked, but there was no going back. Still, he couldn’t get the words out so he just motioned quickly at the wings, pinching the bridge of his nose to try and hide his mortification. Arthur blinked before reaching back to touch the tip of his wing, his fingers running through the softness with bemusement. 

 

“I suppose, if you must,” he agreed and moved forward, shivers rattling through Alfred’s spine like he was on fire. He was no longer afraid of Arthur but he was still afraid of ghosts. He gulped. 

 

He expected Arthur to guide his hand to the wings but it never happened. Possibly because Arthur’s hand would have went right through Alfred’s and with that thought in his head, he wondered would touching the wings be possible at all. However, his worries were unfounded because his hands found the feathers with ease and were soon all tangled up in warmth. 

 

They were softer than Alfred could have ever imagined and, when he touched them, the feathers all rose around his hand, cushioning it with feathers and fluff. He ran his hands through them, watching Arthur to make sure it was okay. His counterpart was not looking at him, but instead at a small patch of wall on the other side of the room, so it was hard to tell if it was acceptable by anything but the senses going up and down Alfred’s spine.

 

His fingers twisted and danced as if they were atop the typewriter’s keyboard once again, pressing and moving while being cushioned all the while. He was gentle as he could be; he didn’t want to find out the hard way if Arthur could experience pain or not. He ran his thumb over a single stray feather, pondering over the fact that, in one sense or another, he was holding a small piece of heaven itself.

 

“I think that is enough now.”

 

Alfred looked up and jolted a little to find Arthur staring right at him, his eyes piercing and his expression a faux cool. He dropped his hands from the wings and they hung limply by his sides as he was quite unsure as to what he was to do with them. Arthur glided away, his hands wringing behind his back and under those wings.

 

“Thank you,” Alfred said and it felt both appropriate and inappropriate at the same time.

 

If Arthur noticed, he didn’t let it show, as he replied with a simple, “You are most welcome.”

 

Or maybe he did let it show as his voice shook slightly at the first syllable as he changed the subject to begin the next paragraph of the story and his knuckles turned slightly whiter than usual. And if Arthur could read minds, him reading Alfred’s might have been the reason for these small inaccuracies.

 

_This is going to be a long book, isn’t it?_

 

**|END|**


End file.
